


Turn Left, East Of Eden

by tardisy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, End!verse, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-14 20:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2201961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardisy/pseuds/tardisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welcome to Camp Chitaqua.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn Left, East Of Eden

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on [Tumblr](http://tardisy.tumblr.com/post/95795432167/turn-left-east-of-eden).

 

 

 _“_ _You are one of the rare people who can separate your observation from your preconception. You see what is, where most people see what they expect._ ”  
John Steinbeck, East of Eden

 

 

 

The night air is thick and muggy with mid-summer heat, and there’s a soupy veil of fog draped over the landscape as you travel along.

You can’t see a goddamned thing.

It’s like _Night of the Living Dead_ , you want to say, but that strikes a little too close to home these days. Hell, it ain’t even funny-‘cause-it’s-true funny.

You laugh a little to yourself anyway.

The so-called Apocalypse may have stolen your family and your friends, your tiny apartment and your goddamn goldfish named Fred, but it sure as hell isn’t going to have your sense of humor.

Besides your memories, your knapsack, the dusty clothes on your back and your knife, that’s all you have left.

“I think we’re almost there,” the driver – Dave – says. “Not that I can see a damn thing.”

His two companions – a middle-aged woman wearing scrubs and a nametag stamped _Shayla Larkin RN_ , and some grizzled old guy that inexplicably only answers to Porkchop – only _hmm_ and grunt in response.

It’s the most you’ve heard out of any of them since their rusty old Ford pulled up alongside you as you limped down the highway just outside of Yankton.

 _I heard rumors of a place_ , Dave had explained, _outside a’ Kansas City. That’s where we're headed, if you wanna ride._

 _Sounds good,_ you had said, even though you don’t say much anymore. _As long as there’s room_.

And Shayla suddenly looked down at her knuckles, scraped red and raw, and Porkchop resolutely did not look at the vacant space beside him in the backseat.

 _There’s room_ , Dave had said, an echoing emptiness in his eyes. _There’s room_.

The road changes beneath the tires, crunching, rocky plains of unmaintained pavement yielding to the graveled give of off-road trail.

All you can see when you look out the window is the reflection of the dark rings beneath your eyes.

Your knife is a comforting weight in your hand.

“Oh my God,” Shayla whispers. “Thank God.”

The engine heaves as the truck rolls to a stop, and the fog drifts and breaks around a weathered wooden sign.

_WELCOME TO CAMP CHITAQUA_

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

Two women armed to the teeth and who spare no words escort you all to a cabin where a nervous little bearded man waits behind a desk, like he had somehow been expecting company at 2:37 in the morning. There are papers piled high around him, notes and sketches carved into the log walls like some lumberjack-caveman artifact.

An old-fashioned oil-lamp illuminates him from behind, and the dirty halo of light is broken every so often by the looming shadows of mosquitoes and moths.

“Just let me…” he mutters, reaching for a clipboard currently providing the foundation for a leaning tower of _Angel Soft_. “’Kay. Names, ages, and former occupations?”

Dave clears his throat, but Shayla says her name first, and that she’s 43, and she’s been an ER nurse for almost 20 years.

“But I just went back to school to get my DNP,” she adds. “My husband –“

Her eyes turn glassy just before her voice breaks, and she stops.

The bearded man keeps his head down, but you see his knuckles turn white when he clutches his pencil a little too tight.

“I’m. Uh. David Klawansky. With a y. But everyone calls – well, people can call me Dave.” He belatedly removes his tattered ballcap, either as a sign of respect or to have something to hold, you can’t tell. “Sir. I’m 55. Just turned. Was a ranch-hand ‘til my back gave out. Turned to truckin’ to support my – yeah.”

The bearded man asks, “So does that mean you know about machinery?”

“Yes’sir. About all these hands are good for these days.”

You can hear faint screaming beyond the cabin, but the _scritch_ of his pencil never falters.

“Why you askin’ us all these questions? You’re a nosy little man, ain’t’cha?” Porkchop rolls his jaw like he has some phantom chew caught in his gums.

The bearded man runs a hand over his face. “It’s just for records’ sake. To keep track of everyone that comes through here. And so we can determine how you can best contribute to our community.”

He recites his spiel with the patience borne of practice and repetition.

“So, for records’ sake…?” he prompts.

“Name’s Porkchop,” and the bearded man looks up at that, but his mouth snaps shut with the sour look on Porkchop’s face. “That’s what I go by, that’s what I answer to, so that’s all you gotta know. I’m old. I’m retired.”

“Ohh… kay.” The bearded man hesitates, timid. “Do you have any special skills? Cooking? Gardening?”

Porkchop scoffs. “I can shoot. Give me a gun, you can rest yer head easy at night.”

And that seems to be good enough for the bearded man, because he begins writing again.

As you wait for him to finish, you catch some of the words written on the papers nearest you, piled high and scattered haphazardly.

_Marcela Mota, 34, Pediatrician_   
_Billy Garza, 22, Military_   
_Donald Terry, 69, History teacher (won BBQ contest??)_   
_Brenda Johnston, 40, Police detective_   
_Kasie McMahon, 5, Likes flowers_

Each paper within sight seems to have a blood-red line slashed across the corner.

The bearded man catches you staring, and the compassion in his eyes is overwhelming, but he watches you like he’s searching for something.

“I never introduced myself, did I?” he says, the nervous jitter gone, and replaced with something warm and gentle.

Like a funeral director.

“I’m Chuck Shurley. I oversee the camp’s daily operations. And… _over see_ , in general.” He chuckles softly like he made a joke, but quickly sobers. “I’m not gonna lie to you. We lose a lot of people; it’s just how it goes these days, you guys know it well enough. But there’s also a lot of people alive because of this place. We work together, we survive together, we fight together, and we di—do the best we can.”

He slides out another piece of paper to make your record, pencil poised and ready.

“All set?” Chucks says, kind, and when you nod, “Okay. Let’s hear it.”

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

Chuck personally leads the four of you to the cabins with available beds, and sounds deeply apologetic when he says there are only three real beds available.

“We’re a little crowed at the moment, you see,” he explains as you walk past the main gate, “but it’s a nice problem to have. You can work out who goes where, we’re not super picky.” Chuck laughs a little. “It’s not your mother’s summer camp, ya kno—“

Chuck is interrupted by a blaring horn and a lot of shouting.

“Oh no,” he breathes, and clutches his clipboard a little tighter.

The women who led you into the camp have been joined by several other people, all armed, and they all rush toward the entrance to cover the people opening the gate. Three battered Jeeps race through as soon as there’s enough space.

The revving of the engines is punctuated by the staccato gunfire from the guards shooting into the haze.

One of the Jeeps jolts to a stop right next to you as the other two fly by, and Chuck plasters himself to the side to look through the dusty windows.

“Oh shit, oh god, good, good,” he is saying, clearly relieved at whatever he sees.

The driver’s door opens, and a broad-shouldered man with a permanent scowl and a thigh holster slide out of the truck.

He does not look like someone to fuck with, much less someone who can take a joke, but Chuck does just that.

“You always have to make an entrance, don’t you?”

“What’s this?” the man growls, low and rough and clearly unimpressed, looking over each one of you from head to toe and back again.

“New additions,” Chuck says, answering like a soldier, but with the relaxed posture of a friend.

Although, just from being in the man’s intimidating presence for mere seconds, he doesn’t seem the type to have many friends.

“They useful?”

Porkchop grunts. “We are as shit are, _boy_. We are also right in front of yer face.”

Chuck winces as the man’s eyes narrow dangerously. He leans in.

“Yeah, I can see that, _old man_. I’ve seen _a lot_ of you. Every one of ‘em _useful_.”

Porkchop doesn’t look away.

Chuck claps a hand on the man’s back to recapture his attention.

He succeeds, but only after the man throws an arrogant smirk at Porkchop.

“Looks like you got everything, huh?”

“Yup. Did good, ‘cept for the Croats on our asses, but sounds like the Welcome Wagon took care of it for us.”

“Thank goodness. I’ll get the guys to unload. Anyone need the infirmary?”

Shayla steps forward at that, awkwardly clearing her throat. “Anything I can help with?”

“She’s an ER nurse,” Chuck clarifies, when the man only stares at her blankly.

“You good?” he asks.

“One of the best,” she replies, smooth and confident in his appraising gaze.

“Good. Good.” The man scowls less at her, which you assume is his way of smiling. “Our people can take care of it for now. Rest up tonight. You’re gonna be busy from here on out.”

He turns back to Chuck again, all business. “Get them settled. Debrief in 10.”

Chuck barely has the chance to say “Okay” before the man is climbing back into the Jeep and pulling away without a second glace.

“Who was that?” Dave looks stuck somewhere between awestruck and piss-your-pants terrified.

“That,” Chucks says, “is our Fearless Leader.”

“ _Fearless Leader_?” Porckchop echoes. “Is there a fuckin’ Bullwinkle, too?”

“Yeah, just uh. Don’t call him that to his face.” Chuck huffs, adds, “Only one person that can get away with that,” under his breath.

“Then what are we supposed to call him?”

“You call him Dean. Mr. Winchester, if you’re nasty.”

No one laughs, except Chuck.

“Heh. Anyway. So yeah, that’s uh, that’s Dean. Winchester. Dean Winchester. He’s the boss, but you probably won’t be dealing with him too much. He’s, uh. Got a lot on his plate.” Chuck gestures into the darkness. “Shall we continue?”

“Chuck!”

Everyone turns as the man – Dean – comes jogging back.

“Sorry, man, I’ll be right there – “

“We lost Lee. Bled out on the ride back.”

“Oh. Shi—“

“Just found out, tryin’ to get him into the infirmary.”

You think you see something like sorrow flicker across Dean’s face, but his voice is steady and flat.

“Dean –“

“Debrief in 5 now, Chuck.”

And he then he turns on his heel and disappears into the darkness again.

Chuck stares after him for a second before he sighs. He pulls his pencil from its perch behind his ear and jots down a note on his clipboard.

“Well, guys,” he says, and the words and his accompanying smile are strained. “I guess we have enough beds now.”

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

Chuck was right about not dealing with Dean.

A few weeks in, and you haven’t seen much of him since that first night.

You’ve heard _plenty_ of stories about him though, and they’re mostly the kind that makes you not too broken up about that fact.

You’re settling into the routine nicely, splitting your time between shadowing Shayla in the infirmary and working in the garden, and everyone seems to be, if not friendly, at least accommodating to the new kids in town. Camp Chitaqua is a well-oiled machine, but it’s a hell of a lot bigger than you realized.

That means there’s always something to do, but there are also plenty of hands to do it.

On the downside, that means a hell of a lot more mouths to feed. And water. And requiring medical help. And a roof over their heads.

You know you haven’t met nearly everyone yet.

You don’t know if that’s because of your different schedules, or because of the constant rotation of weary old faces to frightened new ones.

And you hope it’s the former, but know it’s the latter.

Five and a half weeks in, ten beds have opened up, and thirteen new refugees arrived.

Welcome to the new age.

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

This is how you meet Castiel.

You’re making your way down one of the main thoroughfares to the mess hall, silently debating the dinnertime options of four year old Spaghettios (with meatballs!) to Chef Howard’s _About To Spoil_ mash-up creation of the day, when you happen upon a dark-haired man you’ve never seen before.

More accurately, you seem to be crashing some sort of Deadhead revival, sans the music and tie-dyed headbands.

He’s perched atop a sagging Tupperware container, proselytizing to a rapt audience of seven. He is clearly high as a kite, and swaying in the breeze to match.

“The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls,” he saying, his voice deep and floating, “and tenement halls,” and the people are nodding in agreement, whispering “yes, yes.”

What. The fuck.

No wonder you’ve never seen him before. He’s obviously been locked away, lighting up and listening to _Best of the 60s_ since the world caught on fire.

Maybe he has the right idea.

Your heart damn near leaps out of your throat when a voice behind you says, “That’s Castiel. Cas.”

It’s Annie and Jeff, both members of the C-team scavenger group. She lent you some toilet paper out of her secret stash, and he shared his Twinkie with you after your first Camp Chitaqua _holy shit this is my life now_ freakout, so they’re definitely good people. “Haven’t met him yet, have you?”

“He’s Dean’s right-hand man,” Jeff explains, and then laughs at your bewildered expression. “I know. He’s a little… strange.”

“But he’s a good guy,” Annie says. And after a diplomatic pause, “We all deal with this in different ways.”

“His different ways involve a lot more booze and mind-altering substances— ow!”

Jeff rubs his arm where Annie smacks him.

“In the end, Dean trusts him enough to have him in that core circle of his, so… just. You should know. Sometimes he has group sessions in his cabin. Sometimes they just get high and talk about philosophy and religion and stuff. Sometimes –“

“Sometimes it’s flat out orgies,” Jeff interrupts, with a nostalgic look on his face. Annie rolls her eyes.

“Just so you know. Anyway. You goin’ to dinner?”

You nod, and move to fall into step with them, but you turn to get one last look at Castiel.

A young woman raises her hand, and you recognize her as one of the people that showed up three days ago with her aunt and sister. The man— _Cas,_ acknowledges her with a tip of his chin.

“Were you a priest before,” she waves her hands vaguely, “before all this?”

His face is blank for a moment, and then he doubles over, gasping for air.

“Baby,” he says, sounding devastatingly sad even while heaving with laughter, “there ain’t ever been anything pure about me.”

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   * *   *   *   *   *

 

Sometimes, at night, if there’s no one bleeding out in the infirmary, or no nocturnal critters launching stealth attacks on the garden, or no extra hands needed to organize maps or dig out a new cold storage or kill something, you sneak out to the edge of the camp, lay in the grass and the mud, and look at the stars.

It’s like stepping into a time machine, and you are suffused with memories of warm summer nights, your friends and family gathered around a campfire, singing stupid songs while your best friend fumbles through a guitar accompaniment. The sharp tang of bug spray. The quiet awe when you all looked up into the endless expanse of sky.

You’d stay out until morning, watch the stars disappear as the sun paints the dark canvas of sky with pinks and purples.

Now, you stay until the illusion of yesterday is shattered.

Sometimes it’s flashes in the distance, and the faint percussion of explosions.

Sometimes the sky is tinged red just above the treeline, and you don’t even bother.

Sometimes it’s the sound of the air raid siren, and you have to run to your designated station and pray there are enough bullets and the fence will hold.

Tonight, it is the screech of tires and the echoes of a man screaming. So you pick yourself up from the ground, and head toward the infirmary, because, by now, you know exactly what that kind of scream means.

No rest for the wicked.

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

The second time you see Dean up close and personal, you walk in on him arguing with the dark-haired hippie.

Well, _walk in on_ is a bit of a stretch. A door is cracked open, and you happen to be wandering by on your way to your cabin and some hopefully dreamless sleep.

It’s a total accident, and absolutely not your fault, because seriously, who chooses the brand-new cold storage to have some mysterious impromptu late-night meeting?

The place is dark and a little damp and, okay, _cold_ , and still mostly empty so they’re loud enough to hear even though they’re not shouting.

And yeah, your parents used to say _Curiosity killed the cat_ , but actually it was Croats that ended up doing that, so you’ll take your chances.

“— stupid plan, Dean, it’s not worth the risk,” Castiel hisses.

Dean pushes closer into his space, but he doesn’t back down. “It is _always_ worth the risk.”

Cas huffs humorlessly. “Not if you are risking _yourself_ , dumbass.”

“Aww, Cas,” Dean says, mocking, “is that sentiment I hear?”

They have an oil-lamp with them, the only light there is, and Castiel places it on the ground. His shadow is huge, dwarfing them both, and he suddenly looks like something dangerous and fierce, teeth bared and blue eyes glinting madly, and nothing like the stoner you first saw reciting oldies lyrics in the street.

“If something happens to you, we. Are. _Fucked_.”

They are practically standing nose to nose.

Dean only crosses his arms.

“But apparently I’m not going to change your mind. If you insist on going there, exposing yourself needlessly in some foolhardy attempt for _information_ that the flunkies you will undoubtedly find there will _never_ be privy to, then by all means. But you better believe I’m going with you.”

That, however, rattles a more substantial reaction out of Dean.

“ _Bullshit_. I know who I’m bringin’ to this fight, Cas, and it ain’t you. You’re on the bench for this one.”

“Aww, Dean,” Cas mimics, “is that sentiment I hear?”

Dean’s face, partly shrouded in shadow, hardens.

“You wanna talk about risk? How about, I don’t wanna _risk_ gettin’ caught neck-deep in shit creek with a burned out, powerless, _useless_ junkie?”

In the wavering light, Castiel looks stunned. For a few moments all you can hear is the very literal sound of crickets.

Dean’s posture sags slightly. “Cas–“

“No, it’s. It’s fine. It’s _true._ ” He picks up the lamp. “But true or not, you can bet your Baby’s rusted chassis I’m still going, if I have to strap myself to your bumper.”

And just like that, the air is charged again, and it looks like they’re both gearing up for Round Two.

“ _Cas,_ goddammit!” Dean growls.

“He can’t hear you, Fearless Leader. No one’s here but us and the potatoes.”

“Son of a bitch –“

You take advantage of their raised voices and back away from the storage room door.

So that’s the dynamic duo of Fearless Leader and his Right-Hand Man. It’s… not what you thought it would be.

When it comes down to it, it sure doesn’t sound like Dean trusts Castiel any farther than he can throw him. If they’re always at each others’ throats like that, it’s a wonder anything gets done.

It’s a good thing Chuck’s in charge of the minutiae.

And what the hell are they talking about?

The last thing you hear as you turn the corner is Dean’s faint shout of, “It will be FINE!”

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

It is actually _not_ fine.

Very, very

Not

Fine.

It is actually Dean leaving camp at dawn with two Jeeps, a truck, and twelve of his soldiers, and then tearing back through the gate in the dead of night in single smoking Jeep, with himself and eight of those soldiers somehow crammed inside.

It is laying out seven of those eight soldiers in a triage scene that granddad’s _M*A*S*H_ reruns would’ve been proud to stage.

It’s Shayla assessing each victim with brutal efficiency, barking orders at you and the rest of the infirmary staff, and then crooning softly to her patient before moving on to the next.

It is Raj, one of the nurses, brushing his hand across the eyes of one of the prone figures, shaking his head sadly before shrugging off his windbreaker to lay it over her face.

It is the sinking, sick feeling in your gut when you realize Elliot, the only survivor besides Dean not on the ground, only has a broken ankle, but is starting to exhibit the distinct signs of the Virus. It’s watching the guards, fingers curled around their respective triggers, help him limp, resigned, toward the farthest corner of the compound.

It is Castiel, skin and lips stained crimson, breath short and eyes glassy for a reason that has nothing to do with his pills or his pot.

And it is Dean, rooted next to the truck, fists clenched, his face bloody and schooled but his eyes never once leaving Cas as he’s carried into surgery.

It is suddenly realizing that your Fearless Leader may not be so fearless after all.

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

Every night, Porkchop would drag a chair out to the foot of the guard tower. He’d pull a rusted tin of dip out of one pocket, and a few shells out of the other. Then he’d sit down, carefully load his rifle, lay it across his lap, and stare out into the darkness.

You knew this, because the beginning of his shift was the end of yours, and emergencies notwithstanding, you’d watch his slow march through the window as you finished rolling bandages or wringing out towels.

The thing of it was, Chuck never officially assigned Porkchop to a job. His knees were too arthritic to bend over in the garden, his hands too stiff to grip and pull. He couldn’t run, so he couldn’t leave the compound to scavenge supplies. He couldn’t cook worth a damn, and his eyesight was shit, so Dean personally vetoed guard duty and routine patrols.

So you wondered what he was doing, and _why_ , and one night you asked him.

“A man’s gotta have a purpose. A reason tah keep goin’,” he said around a mouthful of tobacco. “’Specially in these times. The End Times.”

He spat between his feet. “And if you ain’t got a purpose, or cain’t see one, sometimes you gotta make one up for yerself, or find a reason on yer own terms. Otherwise, what’s the point of fightin’ anymore? What’s the goddamn point?”

One week later, Chuck would pull you aside and say, “Before you go looking for him, I wanted you to know that Porkchop, he’s. He’s gone.”

Then he shook his head as if realizing how it sounded.

It didn’t matter, because it still meant the same thing.

“He’s gone as in he left. Slid a note under my door saying _Thanks for the hospitality_ , and when I checked his cabin all his stuff was gone. Every vehicle’s accounted for so… I guess he walked. Yeah.”

Chuck sounded like he was getting angry, confirming it when he exclaimed, “What a stupid _idiot_! Why would he, he go out into. Into _that_? When he could’ve stayed here?”

Purpose, you wanted to say, a reason to keep fighting.

But you only shrugged.

Now, as you look out the window, you see Dean standing in the old man’s place, staring out into the forest as the sky turns soft with morning.

Behind you, Castiel is struggling against the fading anesthetic, twitching and moaning but never quite waking.

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   * *   *   *   *

 

There is a Jeep missing.

As coincidence would have it, there is also a Dean Winchester missing.

“Goddammit,” Chuck is yelling, “God _fucking_ dammit!”

It’s the first time you’ve heard him swear.

“After yesterday— after all of that! After this!”

He gestures wildly at the curtain hiding a roomful of recovering patients.

Shayla stands with you, Raj, and one of the doctors, who, in a stunning twist of fate, goes by _Doc_.

The Bugs Bunny jokes never get old.

“Chuck, please, keep your voice down,” Shayla says, firm but understanding. “They need calm and quiet right now.”

Chuck deflates. “Right. Sorry. Of course you’re right. I’m just—how are they?”

Doc looks down at the clipboard Raj hands off. “In general, we were dealing with quite a few GSWs, a few stab wounds, some burns, broken bones, and concussions, and a hell of a lot of contusions and open wounds.”

At Chuck’s panicked expression, Doc hurries to continue, “But no one has shown symptoms of the Virus, so we’re in the clear there. All except for…”

 _Elliot_ , you all fill in wordlessly, and that moment of silence is more than a lot of people get these days.

“Anyway. Susan, Mark, and Risa didn’t need surgery, and they can go back to their cabins tomorrow or the day after. Paige, Cas, and Ted got the worst of it… what do you want to hear first?”

“Shit,” Chuck sighs.

Doc’s expression softens. You wonder if _Breaking Bad News 101_ is a required course in med school.

When med school still existed, of course.

“Ted. I don’t expect Ted to make it through the day. Paige is in a coma. As for Cas… I’m extremely concerned about infection. And, um,” Doc bends closer to Chuck and whispers for the unnecessary sake of discretion, “I’m also concerned about withdrawal.”

“Right. Right. Of course.” Chuck scrubs a hand roughly down his face. “I thought there’d, like, at least be a list of worst-worst to best-worst.”

Doc smiles grimly.

“Right. Okay. I’m sure we need to replenish the blood bank, get more meds if we can, so I’ll start getting people together. And, uh—keep me updated, please?”

“Of course,” Doc says, and ducks behind the curtain.

“I guess I’ll just—“ Chuck pauses in the doorway. “Are you _sure_ Dean wasn’t in here? At all?”

Shayla shakes her head. “I’ve been here for everything. He never came in.”

“Actually,” Raj says, digging in his pocket. “I don’t know if maybe this means something?”

He holds out a thin black cord with a burnished gold charm dangling on the end. “He grabbed me before I came in with the last patient, and told me to make sure Cas gets this back as soon as he’s out of surgery. There’s been so much happening, I forgot.” Raj’s face quirks apologetically. “So, does it mean something?”

Chuck’s mouth works for a few seconds before he pulls the cord out of Raj’s outstretched hand.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” he murmurs, “it might. It might.”

He clearly thinks it does, but just as clearly isn’t going to share with the class.

“Is it okay,” he asks Shayla, “if I step back and set it in there with him, where he might see it if—when, he wakes up?”

Shayla nods. “But in and out. Wash your hands first. And wear a mask. And try not to disturb him.”

“No, I. I won’t. Thanks.”

Chuck walks to the wash basin, cradling the necklace like it’s something sacred.    

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   * *   *

 

No one told you how godawful winter at glorious Camp Chitaqua was going to be.

But you sure as hell tell every poor soul that walks through that gate.

The wintertime is miserable.

There’s too much snow, and not enough food.

There’s too much cold, and not enough meds.

Everyone sleeps together in a few pre-designated cabins to conserve firewood.

The holidays come and go without too much fanfare.

But for some reason, no one bites the dust on Christmas. It’s like a friggin’ miracle, like the star, like the oil.

So while it’ll never be the best holiday you’ve ever had, it’ll definitely land in your top five.

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

But it is most assuredly not Christmas, so Ted dies at 5:07PM.

Shayla has been up for almost 48 hours, and although she is the biggest badass you know, a human being can only do that so many times in a week, so you volunteer to take her night shift while she gets some sleep.

At one point, late enough that it’s almost early, you slip into the office to organize some paperwork before the doctor’s rounds, and leave the door cracked so you can hear over the hum of the generator if anything happens.

And since you’re listening for it, for changes in the stillness and the creaks in the bedsprings, you do not miss the footsteps of someone sneaking in. You hear the squeak of the floorboards when they stop, and the give of a mattress when someone sits down.

You unsheathe your knife from your ankle holster and creep toward the slim opening.

And there is the camp’s misplaced Dean Winchester, perched on the edge of Castiel’s bed, hip to hip with the unconscious man, Cas’ chart in one hand and an army green duffel bag at his feet. His face is turned down, so you can’t see his expressions, but you can hear his breath catch every so often as he reads the doctor’s notes.

Dean twists at his waist to return the chart to its hook at the foot of the bed; when he turns back to Castiel, you can hear his back pop, and see his full-body flinch when it does.

Then he freezes, out of pain, you think, but when he reaches for the necklace Chuck wound neatly around the poles that make the headboard, you realize you are wrong.

Dean frees the cord, then slowly slides one hand underneath Castiel’s neck to support his head when he lifts it from the pillow, with far more care than you would’ve have ever believed him capable. He slips the necklace over his head, and the charm slides down the bridge of Cas’ nose to rest in the dip of his lips, before Dean tugs it down and gently arranges it against his chest.

Then Dean Winchester, Fearless and Fearsome Leader, does something strange.

He folds the sheets away from Castiel’s body, letting them pool just below his navel.

He peels away the tattered hospital gown, slowly, slowly, gathers it up around Cas’ shoulders.

And he just sits there, staring.

There isn’t much to see: Cas’ torso is swaddled in fraying bandages, spots of crimson blooming here and there. They’re due to be changed soon. The inky arms of his tattoo – having one is the only uncompromising requirement of staying at the camp – peeks out in stark contrast to the sliver of sickly pale skin.

Dean stares at him, unmoving, for several minutes.

Then the generator sputters, as it sometimes does, and Dean shakes his head, as if to clear it.

He reaches out one hand to hover over Castiel’s chest, fingertips just barely touching. A strong shiver racks Cas’ body. He grunts, soft and exhausted, when it ends.

Dean apparently takes that as his cue to leave.

He carefully rearranges Castiel’s gown, his covers, and the necklace, and stands up.

And he spins around to makes a beeline for the office, duffel bag in tow.

Oh shit, ohhh shit.

It’s a good thing you dive behind the desk when you do, because he doesn’t bother knocking, and he shoves the door open with enough force to rattle the framed _Hang In There Baby_ cat poster decorating the wall.

Dean drops the bag on the desk. The items inside clatter.

“This is for Cas.”

 _What, no hello?_ is on the tip of your tongue, but you value your life and are quickly learning that Chuck and Castiel seem to the only ones with a free pass.

Snapping fingers graze the tip of your nose, and you look up into a stormy, filthy face. There are drying carmine stains smeared at his temple, on his collar, his nose, on the fingers he is pointing at you. “You listening to me?”

He waits until you nod before he continues.

“This,” he pokes at the bag for emphasis, “is for Castiel. The next time they do rounds, you give this to the person in charge.” He catches you with a threatening gaze. “This is _only_ for _him_. No one else, no matter what. If I have to make it a fucking order, I will.”

Dean stares you down, and you suddenly wonder if all of those stories about the Fearless Leader, about everything he’s ever done, maybe aren’t stories after all.

“Do you understand me?”

You swallow heavily, and nod.

He watches you for another beat and then turns for the door, but pauses.

“If anyone has questions, you tell ‘em to check with Chuck. And if anyone gives you shit, you tell ‘em to check with _me_.”

You wait until you can’t hear the hollow echo of his footsteps, then another minute and a half after, just to be safe.

You pull the bag toward you, and struggle with the zipper for a bit because Dean didn’t close it carefully enough and the fabric is caught in the teeth.

If this was a movie, the _Hallelujah_ chorus would have swelled and celestial light would have flooded from the cracks in the ceiling when the zipper finally gives.

Dean’s duffel bag contains things that are more precious than gold, more valuable than any currency – and those are poor comparisons, because that stuff means shit these days.

However flawed, though, the sentiment is true.

In Dean’s duffel bag, there are hundreds of tiny glass vials, bottles, and liquid-filled bags. There are syringes, and wipes, and clean, unused bandages.

It is a treasure trove.

You carefully pick out the items and organize them into groups: painkillers, antibiotics, saline. There are a few blood bags in a small Styrofoam cooler typed to match Castiel.

There is a lot of morphine. There is also some Methadone.

There is a hastily scribbled note that reads, _Don’t skimp. –D.W._

Everything is also stamped with the name of the hospital it came from.

You look at the map hanging on the office wall. It has pushpins meticulously marking every hospital within a 300 mile radius. The ones closest to Chitaqua have been circled to indicate that they’ve already been scavenged. Some have question marks; others are untouched because they haven’t been explored yet.

And then there are the hospitals with the red Xs. Those hospitals are in the so-called “hot zones.” No one is allowed to scavenge them. They are the last resorts, the _we’ve got nothing else to lose_ last resorts.  

Every damned item in Dean’s duffel bag, down to the letterhead he used for his note, is from a red X.

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

Days later, as you are stumbling out the infirmary door, you hear Cas ask Raj, hoarse and weak, "When did Dean come?"

"I'm sorry, Cas," Raj says, "he hasn't been here."

Castiel doesn't reply, but when you glance over your shoulder, his shaking fingers are clutching the necklace, and he is smiling.

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

When your hometown burned to the ground, and you were the last person left in the world – okay, not really, but it felt like it – you picked a direction, and started walking.

It was all very _Walking Dead_ , streets littered with empty cars and everything on fire, though you had wished you picked up more useful information from that show. All you got from it was a tingly feeling whenever you saw a katana and an uncanny ability to make people collapse in hysterics by yelling a single word: _Carl!_

Yeah, so. Not helpful.

You walked for a long time. Took shelter in abandoned cars and farmhouses at night. Ate the food that you found in the same.

You met some people along the way. People that weren’t sick, that were wandering, in a daze, trying to figure it out, just like you.

Some of them told you stories. About the virus that was spreading, how it was worse than the news said it was. About giant wings scorched into the earth. About neighbors and friends and loved ones who were completely fine one moment, and whose eyes turned black – black! – in the next.

Some of them helped you. A bottle of water for a safe place to sleep. A bag of Cheetos for a needle and thread. Once, a weeping man, holding the limp, broken bodies of another man and a child pushed his backpack and Broncos sweatshirt at you, said, _Just take it, take it all, please, please._

So many more, though, simply refused to share. You watched people pour the last of their clean water into the mouths of loved ones with a death rattle, even while a complete stranger, dirty and unknown but _alive_ , begged for it right in front of them. You saw a group of ten hold down a starving man for a can of fruit cocktail. So, so many cars blew right on by as you trekked down the highway, before Dave stopped and offered you a ride.

The end of the world can make people selfish.

But you understood then, and you understand now.

You would have been, too, if there had been anyone left worth fighting for.

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

Paige dies.

So do a few newcomers, and a couple of Chitaqua veterans.

Castiel does not.

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

You see Dean around the camp more frequently now. As far as anyone knows, he hasn’t left since the complete clusterfuck of that last mysterious mission. But his inner circle has always been shrouded in secrecy, with his closed door meetings and extended scavenges and _need-to-know_ basis, so it seems like what everyone actually knows is jack shit.

That doesn’t stop them from talking, though.

_He’s scared now. He got all them people killed, and now he’s afraid to go back out there._

_Baloney! That dude’s got, like, the eye of the tiger. And it’s not the first time he’s lost that many, or more. He’s probably just taking a break ‘cause his merry little marauders took a big hit. He’s gotta train new people to replace ‘em, and that takes time._

_‘Naw. You see him train anybody? Recruit? I saw him walkin’ in circles around Castiel’s cabin yesterday, just readin’ that diary a’ his and talkin’ to himself._

_Yeah, I did too, coupla days ago. But he was sitting on the stairs. You think he finally snapped?_

_I think he snapped before Camp Chitaqua was a glint in his eye. That man looks like he’s got the weight a’ the world on his shoulders, and he’s runnin’ outta gas._

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

One balmy spring morning, Shayla sends you on a mission.

“Can you go grab Castiel out of his cabin, please? He missed his check-up yesterday, and Doc needs to give him the once-over. And tell him it doesn’t matter if he thinks he’s too sore; it’s not an excuse. Bed rest is over, and exercise is part of the recovery process.”

And that is how you find yourself at the threshold of Castiel’s cabin for the first time.

There are wooden beads hanging from the frame, but there is a door behind it, and it’s closed. You knock softly, then with a little more force when no one answers. It just barely swings open beneath your knuckles; it wasn’t quite closed all the way.

You push it open to peer inside, and your senses are overwhelmed with the pungent stink of weed and sweat and incense.

Cas has blackout curtains, so it’s mostly dark inside, and you can only see thanks to the slivers of light from the doorway and the space where the curtains aren’t quite closed all the way.

It is the latter that falls directly on the bed, where Castiel is on his back, snoring away without a care in the world.

And there is a man curled around him, face tucked into Cas’ neck so you can’t see who it is.

Although the sheets are pulled up to their waists, you can tell that their legs are intertwined and their free arms are looped together between them. Castiel is wearing what looks like an old Led Zeppelin tee, but the faceless man is shirtless. Shadow and light accentuates his musculature, highlights an impressive collection of scars of different shapes and sizes and obvious origins. He also has a _huge_ strangely shaped welt on his shoulder, and that one has a very _not_ -obvious origin.

His body tells his story, even in the meager light, and it is heartbreaking.

Castiel snorts wetly, and you freeze, but he only turns his head toward his bedmate, and his breathing goes quiet and even.

As if in answer, the other man shifts and stretches languidly, pulls Cas closer into the curve of his body. He huffs a little, but goes willingly, so obviously trusting, even in sleep.

There is a glistening wet patch on Cas’ collarbone where the other man has been drooling.

You should go.

But it is so.

It is so.

 _Sweet_.

Nothing at Camp Chitaqua is _sweet_. Okay, maybe the wild strawberries everyone collects in the summertime, but.

Not the same thing.

The whole _end of the world_ thing toughens you up. It makes you hard, and efficient, and yeah, brutal. Every injury, every fuck-up, every loss, just adds another layer of steel beneath everyone’s skin. And there’s a lot of all the above.

But affection, companionship —even love? Yeah. Not so much.

The other man shifts into Castiel again with a little sigh, then rubs his face up Cas’ neck only to succeed in smashing his nose into the limp curls at Cas’ ear.

Oh. It’s so –

The quilted lump of the other man’s leg moves beneath the sheets to curl around Cas’ hip. He pulls at him again, tips his head back to tuck Cas’ beneath his chin.

It’s –

The light catches the man’s face at the perfect angle.

It’s Dean Winchester.

Right. So.

You should go.

From behind, someone pats your shoulder, and you credit the circumstances of this life for not screaming and tumbling over the porch railing.

Your heart is already pounding for an entirely different reason.

“Sorry,” Chuck says with small smile. “Did I get’cha?”

That doesn’t even dignify a response.

“Heh. Right. Hey, listen, I stopped by the infirmary to get the inventory update from you, and Shayla said she sent you here.”

Chuck moves between you in the doorway, blocking your line of sight into the cabin.

Too late, Shurley, too late _._

“If you don’t mind getting those papers together, I’ll get Cas to the doc. Deal?”

He slips through the door with a wink before you can protest or agree.

“Rise and shine, lazy bones!” Chuck exclaims brightly, clapping his hands. “Time and tide wait for no man. And Cas has somewhere to be.”

Dean and Castiel groan in unison.

“Fuck you, Chuck. You’re lucky I don’t have my gun – where the hell’s my gun? Cas. _Cas_.”

Castiel grunts blearily. “Ow! _What_?”

“Where’s my gun?”

The bed creaks and there is the sound of shifting fabric.

Then Castiel starts to giggle.

“Wha—why are you laughing?”

“It’s, it’s. It’s. It’s over there!”

“In the pile?”

“No, it’s,” Castiel laughs. “To be unerringly specific and accurate. Your gun is in your pants. Your big… manly… gun!”

Castiel dissolves into hysterics.

Chuck groans, “Oh my god,” like he’s currently reevaluating every decision he’s ever made.

And then you hear a sound you have never, ever heard before.

Dean Winchester.

 _Laughs_.

More to the point, he howls with glee, uncontrolled and gasping.

“Jesus,“ Chuck whines, “are you both _still_ buzzed?”

The laughter gradually dies down enough to where Dean can respond.

“Hey! Doc said it’s good for Cas’ pain. Leave him alone.”

“Oh yeah?” Chuck fires back, “and what’s your excuse?”

Dean falls completely silent. And then, so does Cas.

“Aw, c’mon, Chuck,” Castiel murmurs. “It’s, uh.”

Cas pauses, then tries again.

“It’s good for his glaucoma?”

There is dead silence.

And then Dean snorts, and starts laughing again, which in turn sets off Castiel.

“Okay, okay,” Chucks relents, and there is a smile in his voice. “You’re not both stark-ass naked, _again_ , so this is a win for me. But really, guys, we need to get going. Cas.”

He waits until the pair stops laughing.

“You really do need to get to clinic.”

Castiel groans.

“Please.”

Castiel groans more agreeably.

“And Dean. I, um. We need to talk. I, uh. I saw some things. Last night. So. Talking. Good. And Cas, you need to hear it, too. So maybe we should wait until you’re done –“

“No.”

Just like flipping a switch, there is the Dean Winchester you know. That hard edge in his voice is back. He hardly sounds like the same person.

Maybe he’s not. Maybe everyone only knows Fearless Leader.

Maybe it’s only these two that know Dean Winchester.

Cas sighs.

“You get Cas to the doc. I’ll wait for you in the war room,” Dean dictates.

War room?

“—Cas can join us when he’s done. Or I’ll catch him up later.”

“Does _him_ get a say in all this?” Cas says.

“No,” Dean and Chuck answer as one.

“Just thought I’d ask.”

There is suddenly a lot of commotion coming from within, the floor creaking and heavy thuds and groans, and, oh yeah, you were supposed to be gone ten minutes ago, oops.

So you tiptoe down the stairs and head back to the infirmary.

You run the whole way, and try to reconcile the peaceful, sleeping faces of the two men curled together with the ruthless leader and burnout everyone thinks they know.

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

One night, when Castiel was still recovering in the infirmary, Dean Winchester got rip-roaringly, spectacularly, drunk off his ass.

You did not know this, as you were fast asleep in bed. But Jeff and Annie were there, and they tell you about it over breakfast.

_Oh yeah, it was bad. I can't believe you didn't hear it!_

_He was totally gone. Howling at the moon gone._

_Dude, he wasn't howling._

_‘Dude,’ it's a metaphor._

_Anyway, he was yelling nonsense all over the place. Someone had to wake up Chuck to try and get him to calm the hell down._

_Yeah, what was that shit he was saying? About Hell?_

_Oh yeah, he just kept saying to Chuck, something like, 'He pulled me outta Hell, man, he saved me from that rack.' Yeah, that was super weird. Is that from a song?_

_Dunno. But yeah, he was saying all sorts of crazy shit like that. 'He lost his wings for this bullshit' and... well. The rest was pretty sad, actually._

_I don't think I heard that?_

_Well, I didn't either, but Sparky said that Rosalyn said she heard him and Chuck outside of Dean's cabin. And he was sayin' stuff like, 'I already lost Sammy,’’ what if he leaves too, what have you seen,’ ’I can't, Chuck,' and it sounded like he was maybe... you know. Crying._

_Yeah, I call bullshit. No way was Dean Winchester crying._

_Yeah, probably. Maybe he was just puking._

_Who is Sammy?_

_Um. I don't know. Oh, wait! Remember that girl from patrol... didn't come back from that ambush?_

_Oh. No, I don't. I doubt it was her though._

_Who was he talking about otherwise?_

_I dunno, man. The guy was totally wasted. It was probably his invisible pet bluejay._

It was Castiel, you want to say with dawning revelation, thinking of the two of them curled together, of the way Dean still hasn’t left camp seemingly because Cas is still recovering. He was grieving for Castiel.

But Dean probably hadn't been drinking with the intent on sharing his secrets with the world.

So you don't either.

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

Castiel has healed well, _supernaturally well_ , to quote Doc.

( _Sure you don’t have superpowers? Accelerated healing? Maybe some midichlorians in that blood of yours?_ Doc had laughed _._

 _I think I understand that reference,_ Cas had replied slowly, strangely bitter, _and no. No, I don’t_.)

Doc clears him for duty, sends him off with a pat and smile, ignores or doesn’t see Cas slip a vial of morphine into his pocket,and that’s that.

Naturally, Cas’ first order of business with his newly liberated state is to preside over a funeral for a goldfish.

He, along with approximately twenty children, one of who is dressed in black and crying the loudest, are gathered in the corner of the tomato plot, standing over a small patch of freshly disturbed soil. He is reciting passages from a crumbling children’s book, _Memoirs of a Goldfish_ , with reverent authority.

“What the fuck,” Jeff whispers.

You and Annie stare at the gathering.

This was not what you were expecting to find when the three of you decided to use your down time working in the garden.

“But really, guys, what the actual fu—“

Annie elbows him in the stomach. “Watch your goddamn mouth,” she hisses, “there’s kids right there. And it’s a funeral. Shit. Be respectful.”

“Riiiight,” Jeff drawls. “How ‘bout we forget the tomatoes, and work on the beans.”

But the bean plot is kitty-corner to the tomatoes, so you all still hear Cas’ sermon.

“Hope the tomatoes don’t taste _fishy_.” Jeff laughs, sweat dripping down his brow as he tills. He amuses himself with alarming frequency.

“Hush,” Annie says, “it’s good fertilizer.”

Castiel has tucked the book beneath his arm, clearly finished with the Gospel of Goldfish, but he is now waxing poetic about things that should be beyond the comprehension or interest of his audience.

Instead, their little tearstained faces are fixed on him, mouths opened in wonder, utterly rapt with the words pouring out of his mouth.

There’s just something about him. Maybe it’s the way he speaks with authority, a different species than Dean’s. It’s like he just _knows_ , like he’s lived it all and is telling you from experience. Maybe it’s how he sounds like he’s wise beyond his years, even when he’s spouting nonsense and reeking of patchouli.

“You have to hold on to something, children, or it all gets swept away, like the leaves on the river, the clouds in the breeze,” he is saying. “Your compassion, your kindness, your –“ and he seems to struggle with the word like it's foreign to him, “your _humanity_. Because once it's gone...”

He trails off into silence, and stares vacantly ahead.

As he purses his lips into a thin line, you follow his line of sight to...

Dean. Standing in the open training field, some distance away, gesturing angrily and barking commands at a group of people with sniper rifles, posture stiff and threatening as he looms over one of his new recruits.

“Once it's gone what?” one of the children asks, enthralled. “Can you get it back?”

"I don't know," Cas finally says. "Sometimes, I think so. But I don't know anymore."

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

Dave works on machines.

Yes, that Dave. Klawansky with a “y.” The thoughtful man with the sad eyes that stopped on the road and saved you.

He splits his time between the motor pool and the repair shed. He's the one that keeps the camp mobile. He helps keeps the engines clean and moving. He keeps the generators running, and the respirators pumping. Even when he doesn't have the parts, he makes it work.

He's a post-apocalyptic MacGyver.

Until, one day, someone has too little sleep and isn’t paying attention, and turns on a machine while Dave still has his hands in it.

It is awful. You've seen a lot – _a lot_ – of injuries come through the infirmary, and his is, without a doubt, one of the most gruesome.

And in the end, after surgeries and forgoing pain medication for the sake of others and an improvised therapy program, Dave still works on machines.

He still splits his time between the motor pool and the repair shed. He keeps the cars running, and the camp, too.

And he works with the doctors to create rudimentary prosthetics for those in need of them, like the ones he fashioned for himself.

Not once did he talk about giving up.

Dave saved you before, a long time ago. And, now, by example, he is saving you, and others, still.

If only everyone had a reminder, a light like that. These days wouldn’t be quite so dim.

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

A nasty virus sweeps through Chitaqua, leaving empty beds and shorthanded crews in its wake.

For the time being (read: until some newbies inevitably turn up on the doorstep) every capable hand is expected to pick up the slack, helping out with the odd job in between regular duties.

Today, for you, this means spending a lonely afternoon restocking one of the rooms near Chuck’s office with newly scavenged supplies.

You’ve worked your way to the back of the room, reorganizing the things with legible expiration dates and making notes in the inventory notebook, when the door comes flying open with enough momentum that it slams back shut when it rebounds from the wall. You have a mild heart attack as you crawl toward the aisle between the shelves to get a look at what the hell is happening.

The light from the only window is interrupted by a neat line of metal shelving units about ten rows deep, so at first there’s only the shadows of two sturdy figures, tugging and pulling and crashing into each other, accompanied by two very familiar voices, pitched low and deep like they’re competing for Macho-est Dude Voice Of The Year.

" _Dean_ ," Castiel says, breathy and muffled, "Dean, what are you –"

"Cas," Dean growls, "shut the fuck up. _Shut up_."

And from the lush, wet sounds coming from their general vicinity, Dean apparently assists him with doing just that.

So. Um.

This is a bit awkward.

With uncomfortably close quarters and circumstance and all, this sort of thing is not exactly a rare occurrence; it’s just a fact of life, these days. Nothing shocking, nothing scandalous. Usually (if you’re lucky) there's at least a thin wall or curtain between, but more often it’s just closed eyes and earplugs in an attempt to give a respectable illusion of privacy.

But a darkened corner, separated by metal shelving units full of the tinned bounty of yesteryear?

It's a new one.

Something clatters and crashes.

"Shit, Dean, be carefu— ow! Watch your elbow, Dean, fuck."

Then Castiel moans happily, so Dean must be the _actions speak louder than words_ apologetic type.

As the minutes pass, only soft sighs and the occasional rustle of fabric and _clang_ of, presumably, belt buckles colliding fill the spaces in the silence where you would expect. Well. _More_.

Maybe they just ducked into the nearest available space for a clean, old-fashioned game of _Seven Minutes In Heaven_?

You peek between the spaces in the barricade of cans separating you and see, yeah, no, that’s definitely not the case.

In the dim light and semi-obstructed view, you can see that they’re both fully clothed, but their buckles are undone and their pants hitched low around their hips. Castiel is flat on his back, Dean pressing him into the cold concrete floor, and his legs are wrapped high around Dean’s waist, leaving muddy streaks on Dean’s jeans where his boot heels are pressing in, unforgiving.

They both have a hand fisted in the other’s hair – easier for Dean, it seems, Cas’ unkempt mop providing a more ample grip. The fingers of Cas’ other hand are digging into the meat of Dean’s straining shoulders; Dean’s arm is wrapped around Castiel’s back, coming from beneath him to cushion his head in the palm of his hand.

Their eyes are squeezed shut, and even when they aren’t kissing messily or biting or licking at each other’s lips, they keep their faces smashed together to gasp quietly into the other’s open mouth.

Dean and Castiel rock together quickly, with purpose, like this is routine, like they are used to taking advantage of stolen moments, thick as thieves.

It’s strange that you don’t feel guilty about watching, or like you’re intruding – you can’t see much, after all, and what there is to see isn’t much either, and hey, they crashed your party here – until they start gripping at each other more tightly, and everything suddenly seems tinged with desperation as they begin whispering to one another.

“Dean, Dean, please –“

Castiel’s breath hitches when Dean untangles his hand from his dark head, moves it to sweep up and down Cas’ demin-covered thigh before wriggling it in the tight space between them.

“Shh, babe, shh, I got ya, I’m here.” Dean slows his hips, gentles, presses kisses across the bridge of Cas’ nose, the fringe of his eyelashes.

Castiel blindly frames his hands around Dean’s face, then opens his eyes. He hooks his ankles together and squeezes, stopping their movement altogether. “Are you?” he says. “Here?”

Dean stares down at him, and swallows audibly. A tremor shakes through him as he nods.

Whatever he sees in Dean’s eyes is good enough for Castiel, it seems, because he pulls Dean’s face to his without finesse, smashes their mouths together hard and rough, and their movements continue, more frantic, and frenzied.

You look away, and cover your ears.

It doesn’t block out Castiel’s cresting achy sighs, though, or Dean’s low groan that sounds like an approximation of Castiel’s name.

You carefully move your hands away from your head, and are met with the soft, harsh sounds of hastily evening breaths.

“Dammit, Cas, all over my shirt,” Dean complains.

Castiel huffs a laugh. “Hey, you’re the one who couldn’t wait to get back to the cabin. And it’s half your fault. _And_ my shirt got it too, so. Relax.”

You peek through the shelves again to see them pressed together still. Dean is nuzzling his nose into the hair curling at Castiel’s temple, biting kisses into the hinge of his jaw. In retaliation, Cas holds him still and licks a stripe up Dean’s neck.

Dean groans and gathers Castiel even closer, which doesn’t seem possible. Cas responds by spreading his fingers widely across the expanse of Dean’s back, squeezing his knees at Dean’s hips, cradling him with his body.

Dean murmurs something that you can’t quite make out, but whatever it is, it makes Castiel smile.

“Let me up,” he says gently, slapping Dean’s ass. “The ground is cold, and you’re going to be an unbearable bastard when your knees give you trouble later.”

Dean grunts in acknowledgment, but it takes him a few moments more before he levers himself up enough to right himself and Cas and the both of their clothes, and then heaves Cas up to sit by his side against the wall. Castiel tips over a little to rest his head on Dean’s shoulder.

They both stare ahead blankly, blinking tiredly.

Castiel’s mouth opens and shuts a couple of times, like he’s working up to something.

Eventually, Castiel reaches for Dean’s hand to absently toy with his fingers. Surprisingly – or maybe not so surprisingly, anymore at least, Jesus – Dean allows it.

“Dean,” he tries, tentative. “If I ask you to promise me something, would you?”

“Sure,” Dean says easily, but his face is shuttered and suspicious.

“Would you mean it?”

Dean hesitates, but replies, “Maybe.”

For a second, it seems like an open-ended question, because Cas doesn’t go on, only continues his examination of Dean’s hand.

But then Castiel clears his throat, and his fingers still.

“Promise me. Whenever you ever see that it’s time to go out in a blaze of glory, make sure I’m riding shotgun.”

“Sure, promise,” Dean answers, like it’s nothing.

“You don’t mean that.” Castiel sounds disappointed.

Dean’s fingers twitch against his thigh, and he doesn’t respond.

“Dean. I know I’m a lot of things now, and not nearly what I was, but I’m not blind. Or stupid. I see you.”

“Fuck off, man,” Dean says halfheartedly. He sounds so damn tired.

Castiel sighs, and shifts away so that he’s sitting up straight at Dean’s shoulder. He looks up toward the ceiling.

“I miss flying the most, sometimes, I think.”

Dean’s eyes narrow uncertainly, but the Fearless Leader is always quick with a jab, verbal or no. “Is that what the fuckin’ amphetamines are for?”

Castiel, though, is a perfect sparring partner, and just as swift. “Nope, but it is why I chase them with absinthe.”

They sit in an uneasy silence for a beat before they turn their faces toward one another.

“I remember it, though,” Castiel says, gruff and wistful. “Like now. When I’m with you, when you’re _with_ me –“

“Cas,” Dean rumbles, low, warning, like thunder, “ _stop._ ”

Castiel only talks over him.

“I get that same feeling. I remember it, and I remember why we’re fighting. And why it’s worth it, Dean, why _you_ are worth –“

Dean lunges at Castiel, and the only reason he doesn’t topple over is because Dean has his hands buried in Cas’ hair, shaking him roughly in time with his words. “I said. _Stop_. It.”

And then Dean is kissing Castiel fiercely, and hell, it looks like it hurts, but he is sweeping his thumb across Cas’ cheekbone like he’s something fragile.

“You taste like a goddamn ashtray,” Dean growls into his mouth, but he kisses him anyway, again and again.

Dean Winchester is not someone _anyone_ would associate with tenderness. You have never seen Dean touch anyone with the type of affection he bestows upon Castiel, wild and raw as it may be.

Why him? you wonder. Why him?

Like any tempest, though, Dean calms, gives Castiel space enough to breathe so he can finish his speech, undeterred by other man’s efforts to interrupt him.

“But I know how I feel, Dean. The rest of the time. When things are fucked up. When you’re... it'd only get so much worse if you...” Cas trails off, before he visibly regroups and continues. “I'll be your good little soldier. I'll even stay behind on the sketchy stuff when you spout bullshit about why I can't go, when we both know damn well the _real_ reason why you won't let me come with you. But when it's time, don't you leave me behind. _Promise me_. If you ever did a damn thing for me, after everything I've – we've, been through, you fucking promise me that. You give that to me, you son of a bitch.”

Dean clenches his jaw and tips his head forward, so they are nose to nose, foreheads touching. He just barely nods, like it hurts him.

Castiel reaches out and fists his hand in Dean’s shirt, tugging once, hard.

“Say it,” Cas snarls.

Dean moves his own hand between them, rests it against Castiel’s chest, his heart.

“I promise.”

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

In his previous life, Chuck Shurley was a writer.

It takes an embarrassingly long time to learn this.

He tells this story, sometimes, in rare moments of quiet, around the campfire.

 

Once upon a time, he will say, there was a man.

This man was a good man, a _righteous_ man – not like the ‘70s kind of _righteous, man_ , but – well, you know what I mean. He was a good guy.

So this guy, he had a hard life. But despite everything, or maybe because of it, he sacrificed all of himself for the good of others. He loved his family, he loved his friends, and he loved people. It’s why he sacrificed, and bled, and one day, even died for it.

This man, this righteous man, died for love. He exchanged his life for the life of another good man. He made a deal. And he went to Hell.

Shitty trade, right? Yeah, it gets worse.

The man was tortured for years and years and years. He was a strong man, and a good man, remember, but still just a man, and like any of us, he could only take so much. So for the sake of some relief, in desperation, he picked up a blade, and became a torturer himself. And that pain, friends, was even worse than being on the rack himself.

This went on for decades, in our time, but Hell has no end, so for him, it was an eternity.

Until one day. One day, he saw a light in the darkness. It was bright, and pure, and terrifying. It was nothing that belonged in Hell, and nothing he was worthy of. So he tried to snuff that light out. But the light reached back, with kindness, and friendship. The light surrounded him, and told him, you are a good man, and you deserve to be saved.

And so he was. Saved, that is.

 _It was an angel, wasn’t it?_ a small voice will ask.

Yes, yes it was. A very unique angel, Chuck answers. But an angel, yes.

_So what happens next?_

(And here, Chuck will always pause, like he still hasn’t figured out the ending, even though this is the only tale he ever tells.)

Well, he will stammer. A. Lot. A lot happens next. I mean. The world ends, like it’s doing now. And the man, he loses everything. The guy he traded his life for? Yeah, he’s – um. Anyway.

But he still tries to help everyone. But. It’s hard. Really hard. It’s like Hell all over again, but on Earth.

_But what about the angel? Can’t the angel save him again?_

Yeah, um. Chuck squirms. Well. The angel loses everything, too. It’s… not a happy story, really. I don’t know why I tell it –

_But they still know each other, right, the man and the guardian angel? Because then they haven’t lost everything!_

Yeah, admits Chuck, all they have left, really, is each other.

 _Then the angel doesn’t have to save the man. They can save each other, can’t they?_ a young voice will ask.

And Chuck will quirk his mouth, say, I don’t know. I think they can. I hope so. I do.

_Don’t you know? It’s your story! It’s your ending! You can make it how you want!_

I can’t, he’ll say, mysterious and strange. It’s their story, not mine. I just tell it. They decide how it ends. And we haven’t gotten there yet.

 

But angels don’t exist, and Chuck’s story is just that, no matter how enigmatic he tries to be about it, and the guy isn’t ever going to be a literary great.

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

The Devil is real.

You thought that was all just President Palin ranting about some crazy Tea Party bullshit. Turns out, not so much.

Maybe you should have voted for her – no. Nevermind.

Of course, there were stories. Everyone has a story these days. The Four Horsemen, Satan, demons, blah blah blah. But, they were just stories. Media scare tactics. That sort of thing didn’t really exist. How could it?

To be fair, there were a lot Chitaqua residents that thought the same, so. So there.

The revelation comes when Dean, Castiel, Risa, and several of Dean’s specially selected team chase a bloodied, unfamiliar man through the camp as everyone looks on, the pursuit only ending when Dean publicly executes the man as he tries to scale the fence.

Except the man doesn’t die.

Instead, he stands, gunshot wound gushing dark and gruesome, and his eyes turn black (just like the stories!), his mouth twisting in a sickening grin.

“Really? Bullets? You think you would’ve learned by now, _Righteous Man_ ,” he drawls.

As he talks, the guards fall in to keep you and the other Chitaqua residents back, forming a barricade between you and the standoff, and Dean’s team moves into a choreographed formation around the man, guns pointed.  

The black-eyed man shifts his focus to Castiel. “And you, angel face. Lookin’ a little ragged these days. How’s mortality treating you?” Castiel’s grip tightens around an unusual silver blade. “You know, your brother asks about you, dear Castiel.” The man looks back at Dean, and his smile widens. “So does yours, sweetheart. When he can talk, of course. Which ain’t often.”

Dean’s face turns positively deadly. Castiel takes his place at his side.

They don’t look at each other, or say anything.

People are trickling out from their cabins, from the mess hall, from all corners of the camp, to see what the hell is going on. The black-eyed man sees that he has an audience, and laughs.

“This world is ours now! You think these losers can save you? Wrong! Lucifer will welcome you into his family with open arms. You don’t have to be afraid! You don’t have to be sick, or –“

“Shut the fuck up!” Dean bellows.

The man does, with a smirk, taking note of the team moving in around him.

“Aw, Dean, I’d love to find out what’s got your panties in a twist, but I really gotta smoke. So much destruction, so little time. Sorry I couldn’t have been more help to your cause.” He winks. “Don’t forget to fix that Devil’s Trap.”

Then the man leans his head back at a disturbing angle, opens his mouth, and.

Black smoke erupts from within him on an unearthly wail, shooting into the sky like a cloud of ash, as nearly everyone looks on in disbelief.

But then Castiel speaks, his graveled voice booming, echoing through the forest, reciting some language you have never heard before, but makes your bones ache with each word he utters. He stares up, defiant and unafraid, wearing a vicious little smirk of his own.

Dean holsters his gun, and pulls out a knife, the blade’s engraved decoration glinting in the sun. Together, he and Cas advance on the man, standing frozen with his head thrown back and arms splayed wide, as the black smoke abruptly pours back into him, like an Stephen King-esque demonstration of the old _Be Kind, Rewind_ commercials.

By the time the man comes back to himself, black-eyes shining and extraordinarily pissed off, Dean and Cas have their respective blades at his throat.

“What the fuck was that!” the man snarls. “You’re not even a fuckin’ ange—“

“New dog, old tricks,” Castiel growls right back.

Dean uses the tip of his knife to turn the man’s head toward him, away from Cas. “Last chance, asshole. Tell me where it is. Or tell me where _he_ is. I’ll take either. Or both. I’m easy like that.”

“Oh yeah? And what’s in it for me?”

“I’ll persuade him to show you some of his dwindling mercy, and he won’t draw out your inevitable death,” Cas says plainly.

The man’s dark eyes dart between Dean and Castiel’s stony faces, before finally landing on Dean’s with an air of resignation.

“Fine. Fine. I’ll tell you.” He takes a deep breath, bobbing his head as if steeling himself. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you how your brother cried before he said _yes_. How he was about to call you instead, but didn’t. I’ll tell you how he screamed when the light of the Morning Star burned into his soul. I’ll tell you how your precious little _Sammy_ —“

Castiel anticipates Dean’s movement where the black-eyed man doesn’t, _can’t_ , and he moves behind the man to restrain him just as Dean plunges his knife into the man’s chest. The man’s mouth opens in a silent scream as his body jerks and hums with a glowing orange fire from within.

But Dean doesn’t stop. Even when the darkness bleeds from the man’s dull eyes, even when his body goes limp, or when Castiel lets him drop to the ground in an awkward heap. Dean only stops when Cas lays a hand on his shoulder, where you remember you saw that strange welt that one time, when you caught them together in Cas’ cabin. Everyone is quiet, stunned, only the sound of Dean’s labored breathing breaking the silence. Castiel moves to stand between Dean and the crowd, as if to shield him from your prying eyes.

After a few moments, Dean comes back to himself, wipes his knife ineffectually on the man’s bloody clothes, and stands, pushing past Castiel.

“Where’s Chuck?” he barks, but Chuck is already moving toward him, as though he knew what would be coming next.

They share a long look before Dean turns to address you all, Chuck at one shoulder, Castiel at the other.

“Ten minutes. I want all of you – and I mean _all_ of you – on the training field. We’re gonna clear a couple of things up for you.”

And then Dean stalks off, the crowd parting easily around him.

 

And just like that, the secret is out.

Dean Winchester is going to kill the Devil.

 _That’s what this place is about_ , people say, the proverbial light dawning.

_That’s what those secret missions are for. That’s where he goes. He knows how to do it._

_Dean Winchester is going to save the world_ , they whisper.

All of a sudden, people look hopeful beneath the grime and the heartache. They smile like they had forgotten how.

 _He’s going to save us,_ they cry, as they make their way back to their cabins.

And you look around at all of the people milling about, the people munching on apples from the transplanted trees of the Camp Chitaqua orchard, the children kicking around tin cans, oblivious to the enormity of what you have all just learned, of all of the people breathing and fed and safe, people that could just as easily been tossed back in to the fire, but were instead welcomed with open arms, and you think,

Hasn’t he saved us already?

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

Life at Camp Chitaqua doesn’t change much.

People pray more, maybe, drudging up some stale faith that’s been recently buoyed by reality. Liquor doesn’t seem to go as far these days. But other than that, it’s business as usual.

It’s a testament to how fucked up life is during the end times, probably, that everyone takes learning that monsters and demons and the Devil exist in stride.

At least your matching ink makes sense, now. It’s not just some weird Camp Chitaqua souvenir.

_I survived the Apocalypse and all I got was this lousy tattoo._

The weeks pass, and cities continue to burn.

The Devil walks the Earth, but the garden still needs tending.

Shayla still needs you to wash the instruments and roll bandages.

Chuck asks for inventory updates, and Dean Winchester still doesn’t give anyone the time of day as he’s waltzing in and out of camp, shadowed by Castiel and the rest of his team.

The guards do their rounds, and the crews scavenge for food and supplies and more bullets, always more bullets.

People leave. People show up.

People live. More people die.

The world has changed, but remains the same.

 

*   *   *   *  *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

Annie and Jeff go out with their team on a routine scavenge for toilet paper and gas.

Jeff doesn’t come back.

When Annie asks if you want to go to Cas’ cabin for a “group session,” you say yes.

 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

 

By the time you get to Cas’ cabin, though, you’re too late. Castiel’s customary sermon has seemingly finished, as he is nowhere to be seen amongst the people and bottles and shiny foil wrappers. Those that aren’t in the heap of wriggling bodies at the foot of Cas’ bed are slumped together around the doorway, passing around a few bottles and a blunt.

Annie joins the latter group.

You don’t.

Instead, you walk toward the outer edges of the camp, like you used to, and haven’t done in recent memory. The stars are out tonight, and the air is unseasonably muggy and thick, just like it was when you arrived here so, so long ago.

You collapse in the tall grass, near the skeleton frame of some rusted-out car with peeling black paint; but it’s a classic car, so the paint color is probably something fancy, like obsidian fury, or eau de charcoal.

It’s an appropriate landing spot, because you are beginning to feel like that hollow steel heap looks.

It is getting harder to remember life before all of this.

The night is still, and blessedly calm, so you inadvertently start to doze, lulled by a nocturnal serenade of crickets and gunfire.

Instinct keeps you prone when you jolt awake – minutes, hours later, who knows – thanks to… well, something.

Nothing is gnawing on your foot, it’s still nighttime, and there’s nothing dark-eyed or toothy blotting out the stars above you, so –

There’s a painful metallic groan in your periphery. You slowly, slowly, turn your head.

Dean is sitting on the hood of the car, nursing an amber bottle, liquid half gone, in the starlight.

You catch yourself before you sigh.

Really, Mr. Winchester, we must stop meeting like this.

“Figured I might find you here,” a rough voice says from behind you both.

Dean doesn’t turn. He tips the bottle back for a long drag.

“Aren’t you missin’ an orgy or book club or something?”

Castiel chuckles softly, sauntering into view. “More important things to do. Besides,” he says, hopping up on the hood, “fuckers drank all my good tequila.”

He pulls the bottle from Dean’s yielding grip, and takes a pull.

“You drink too damn much, man.”

Cas coughs a little. “Pot. Kettle.”

They sit together in silence, passing the bottle between them. When it’s empty, Dean rears back and throws it into the darkness, where it explodes against the fence.

The shards catch the starlight like glazed fireworks.

Castiel starts to swing his legs restlessly, and the car bounces and creaks dangerously with the momentum.

“Quit it, dude,” Dean grounds out. “’S fucking annoying.”

When he doesn’t, he reaches out and digs his fingers into Castiel’s thigh, and it’s like stepping on the brakes. Cas’ feet come to rest on the bumper, and Dean loosens his grip, but doesn’t move his hand.

“What’d Chuck say?” Cas murmurs. You can just barely hear him over the _swish_ of bluestem.

“Nothing,” Dean says, in a way that means it’s anything but.

Castiel must hear it too, because he tries again. “Dean –“

“I don’t wanna talk about it, okay, Cas?” he grumbles hotly. “If I wanted your fucking opinion, I would’ve asked you to come out here with me.”

“Yet, you haven’t told me to hit the road, so…”

Dean rubs his hands over his face. “You really piss me off sometimes, you know?”

“Yeah, well, join the club.”

When Castiel tips his head up to the sky, one side of his mouth is curled up softly. Dean doesn’t flinch when Cas lays a heavy hand on his back, drags it up and down his spine, measured and easy.

It is a long time before either of them speaks again.

And when Dean does, he sounds like a different man: exhausted, and lost.

“Do you think there’s anything left of him?”

Castiel’s hand pauses in its soothing sweep across Dean’s shoulders.

“Are you asking for truth or personal opinion?”

Dean huffs humorlessly. “I dunno. Are they same thing?”

Cas resumes stroking the other man’s back, but he seems distracted now, as though he’s sifting through appropriate responses.

“My personal opinion?” he says slowly, “My truth? Is that Sa—“

“Don’t,” Dean snaps, “don’t say his name.”

“Fine.” Castiel sighs. “I believe that Sa— _he_ is strong, and if anyone had a chance of overcoming _that,_ it would be him.”

Dean watches Cas closely. “But…?”

Castiel squints at him, and doesn’t speak.

Dean clenches his jaw, his fist, and stares out into the darkness.

“Don’t know why I fuckin’ ask.”

The soft starlight illuminates the sad tilt of Castiel’s eyes and mouth. He runs his hand up Dean’s back to rub his fingers through his short-cropped hair.

“Your turn,” he murmurs. “Tell me a truth.”

Dean looks up at him again. His expression is dark, even though his face is only half-cast in shadow.

“I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch.”

Castiel bobs his head, watching his own fingers play across Dean’s hair, his ear, his neck. With each pass, some of that tension leeches out of Dean’s posture, Cas’ touch slowly chipping away at his hard edges.

Eventually, he makes his request again. “Tell me another one.”

Dean is quiet for a beat, gazing solemnly at Castiel.

“I would die for you.”

Castiel smirks and snorts a laugh. “Yeah, well, odds are I _am_ going to die for you, so. Let’s not be morbid.”

Dean’s face scrunches incredulously. He shakes his head, but he is fighting a smile.

If this is foreplay, it isn’t from any Cosmo article you’ve ever read.

These guys are weird.

“You’re such a dick, Cas.”

“I did learn from the best.”

The car grumbles along with Dean as he subtly leans into Castiel. “Don’t blame that shit on me.” Cas’ arm finally comes to rest across his shoulders. “You came off the line like that.”

“Yeah, probably,” Cas says, with forced casualness. “Always was a little off.”

Dean stills as Castiel’s hand drops away to dig into his pockets. He resurfaces with something small and white – a joint, you figure, as he jabs it between his lips. He reaches into his jeans again, fumbles with what you can tell is Zippo only once he tries to light it with an sharp, aborted _snick_.

For a few moments, Dean watches as he struggles with the lighter. Then he eases it from Cas’ hands, and plucks the rolled paper from his mouth, slipping them both into his own pocket.

“I’ll tell you a truth,” Dean proclaims over Castiel’s complaints.

Cas falls silent, waiting.

Dean’s mouth works, and he turns his face down, unable, it seems, to meet the other man’s eyes.

“I need you,” he says. The words sound rough and painful, like he’s yanked them from the very core of himself. He shifts restlessly. “You want a goddamn truth. That’s one.”

Castiel’s expression doesn’t change, but he tips forward to press a kiss into Dean’s temple, like a benediction.

“And mine,” Cas says, easy and sure. “Mine is that I’m not going anywhere. Because I look at you, and I still see Dean Winchester. I still see a good man within you.” Castiel gently takes Dean’s chin in one hand, and he doesn’t resist when Cas makes him meet his half-lidded gaze. “And I still believe that you deserve to be saved.”

Those are the words from Chuck’s stupid story, of the good – righteous? – man and the angel. The story of good triumphing over evil. Of darkness snuffed out by light, rather than the other way around. His story of loss and sacrifice, and how, even when it seems there is nothing left, there is still something worth saving.

It’s just a story. That shit just doesn’t happen anymore. That kind of purity, that innocent idealism, it rotted away with the rest of the world, was engulfed by chaos and disease and single-minded survival.

Yet here it is, alive and well, playing out right in front of you, as you lay shielded in the tall grass, by Dean Winchester of all people, as he presses his lips to Castiel’s with a violent reverence, as Cas’ calloused hands sweep up and down Dean’s back, his fingers pressing in the hollows of Dean’s ribs through his torn flannel: the ruthless leader and the burned-out junkie, saving each other.

In the spaces in between, they’ve been doing it all along.

You tilt your head back toward the sky, and look at the endless expanse of darkness and light, and for the first time since Dave, Shayla, and Porkchop picked you up on that highway just outside of Yankton and brought you here to Camp Chitaqua, you feel something aching crack open inside of you, something long dormant and desperate to bloom.

It feels something like hope.

 

 

 

 

“ _Timshel_ _— ‘Thou mayest’ — that gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world. That says the way is open. That throws it right back on a man. For if ‘Thou mayest’ — it is also true that ‘Thou mayest not’ ... Why, that makes a man great, that gives him stature with the gods,_  
 _for in his weakness and his filth and his murder of his brother he has still the great choice._  
 _He can choose his course and fight it through and win_. _”_  
John Steinbeck, East of Eden

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on [Tumblr](http://tardisy.tumblr.com/post/95795432167/turn-left-east-of-eden).


End file.
